


Stairs of Wrath

by Mx_Maneater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (like many times in a row), Bad Advice, Bad Flirting, Bisexual Disaster Harry Potter, Clumsy Harry, General Chaos, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Snarky Draco Malfoy, and also off of brooms, falling down stairs at the sight of your crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater/pseuds/Mx_Maneater
Summary: Harry's feet have been doing this thing where they tangle and trip him every time he lays eyes on Draco.It's getting inconvenient, to say the least.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 31
Kudos: 280
Collections: Drarry Strugglefest 2020





	Stairs of Wrath

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [GallifreyisBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning) for the beta work!! <3

It was exactly 6:04 when it happened. Harry remembered quite clearly, because he’d been looking at the grand clock as he fell. He had been minding his own business before that—he’d been very good about that lately, in his humble opinion (no more secrets, stalking, fighting the Dark Lord, etc. for his _eighth_ and final year)—and, of course, that was when Malfoy had to show up and ruin everything. 

Harry had been on his way to dinner, as was usual around this time. He’d had a long day in the library (in direct appeasement of Hermione and her 10-step NEWTs studying regime) and was longing for a break in the monotony when he swung down the grand flight of stairs. If he recalled correctly, he’d even been humming a little Weird Sisters tune that Ron had been playing on the wireless a lot lately—he hadn’t had time to memorize the words yet, just vague bridges of the chorus. The details, however, went a little fuzzy given the events that followed. 

What had happened was simple, really. 

Draco Malfoy had burst through the main entrance, decked out in Quidditch leathers and faintly glowing somehow, and Harry hadn’t even had time to process anything else before his foot came down wrong on the step and he was tumbling headfirst down the stairs. Somersaulting like a _goddamn cartoon villain_ before crashing to a stop at the bottom. 

He’d landed in a crumpled heap at Malfoy’s feet. 

If Harry had a time-turner, he would’ve shamelessly flipped it back a few seconds so that he could stop before this predicament and take those few precious seconds to catalogue the _actual_ situation, because, in retrospect, the heart-stopping (foot-twisting) impact of Malfoy’s image in that moment could’ve easily been dispelled by a few simple facts. Like the fact that his cheeks were rosy from _exercise_ (NOT that he was a literal angel sent to earth to lead Harry to an untimely death) or that Malfoy’s face was relaxed and laughing because of some—probably _mean—_ comment Zabini had uttered right as they walked through the doors. Not that him looking all soft and happy was surprisingly becoming. 

It was all perfectly explainable by science, and there was nothing inherently bewitching in the way Draco Malfoy held himself and _walked—_ an idea that caused Harry’s heart to pound at the same time it slicked his palms with sweat, caused his whole body to panic the moment he set eyes on the other boy. 

Had he had but a moment to puzzle out the grinning, flush-cheeked, suddenly _fit_ boy whose hair _actually gleamed_ in the afternoon sunlight (it was streaming through the doorway behind him _just so_ ), then none of this would’ve happened. Harry would’ve just repressed each of these thoughts individually as they manifested, then stepped confidently on his way.

But of course, that _wasn’t_ how it happened. Things were never quite that easy, were they? 

How it _really_ happened had left Harry sprawled on the ground—practically _licking_ Malfoy’s shoes in a cruel powerplay by gravity—and Malfoy curling his lip in contempt at the surprising (and surprisingly _pitiful_ ) display. 

Which _also_ kinda turned Harry on. So he knew _for sure_ that he’d been concussed. 

“Really, Potter? Did your prescription get worse? Because I know damn well that you don’t wear those glasses for aesthetics.” Malfoy arched a brow so cuttingly that Harry would’ve sworn he’d been sliced. 

The blonde toed Harry’s shoulder warily with his expensive dragonhide boots, earning an amused snort from Zabini (whom Harry had already blocked out again, because _Unimportant_. In fact, he wished he had Malfoy alone so he could…he could… Okay, he didn’t _know_ what, but there was _something_ there he wanted). 

Malfoy’s sharp grey gaze caught on his, which startled him up onto his elbows. If he hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought that, under the condescension, the blonde looked _curious._ But he didn’t have time to think about it just then—he had to do something fast, _anything_ , to regain his dignity. 

Or…simply run. 

_That_ option was looking more appealing by the second, and so, with all the grace of a blind erumpent, Harry scrambled to his feet and backed away. He stumbled once or twice in the process and barely managed a half-hearted “fuck you” towards Malfoy before cutting his losses and practically sprinting away down the corridor. 

Not his most shining moment, to be sure. But he was doing his best to actively repress it, and, with luck, he’d forget all of his shame come morning. 

It was only when he’d ended up in the Gryffindor tower, stomach growling, that he remembered he hadn’t eaten. 

The next time Harry inexplicably fell down the stairs in Malfoy’s presence was on an otherwise pleasant Wednesday in October—and not nearly far enough into the future that he’d forgotten the previous incident. In fact, it had been a measly three days since the first. 

Harry had been coming down the moving stairways on his way back from Charms when he’d sensed a pair of eyes on him. Wearing the cloak and spending an incalculable amount of his youth _sneaking_ , he’d developed a sense for that kind of thing. Regardless, he’d whipped around, foot still singing through the air when he’d caught sight of him. 

Malfoy. On the staircase below. 

_Staring_.

Harry’s foot came down on thin air, and he felt a terrifying lurch in his stomach as he tumbled into freefall. In that horrifying second, with his life flashing before his eyes, he realized that he hadn’t looked to make sure the staircase was connected to the landing before stepping—which was really a rookie mistake—and now he was going to die with his desperate gaze locked on Malfoy. 

And after all he’d been through, that was just a truly sad way to die. 

But to his relief (and dismay), he quickly dropped past the staircase Malfoy was on—past four more, in fact, with increasing speed—and was rewriting the end of his will in his head to include Fleur (because his previous decision to omit her in favor of only mentioning his favorite Weasleys was a bit petty in retrospect) when the floor came hurtling towards his face. 

Then stopped. 

Harry let out a long, choking breath that turned into strangled laughter as his body gently lowered the remaining two feet to the ground. His hands grappled to touch the cold castle stones that somehow _hadn’t_ been his final resting place. He could’ve kissed them for their magnanimity. 

From above, he heard a cry of “Harry? Oh my god!” And then a rush of noise as students and staff came rushing down the multiple sets of stairs to get to him, pausing awkwardly as they waited for the stairs to reattach before disembarking. Because they weren’t _idiots_.

The first one to reach him was Ron—naturally,—as he’d been right behind Harry the moment it had happened, walking with him on their way to Transfiguration. “You okay, mate?” he asked, hauling Harry to his feet with a strong grip. 

Harry had kind of just wanted to lie there for a minute and contemplate his continued existence, but unfortunately a crowd was forming (as per fucking usual) so he took the hand up with borrowed grace. “Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbled. 

“Harry James Potter.” 

Hermione, of course, was the second one to reach him. She, too, had been walking with them to class, though she didn’t hang around on the end of the moving staircases like an ignoramus. 

“How many times have I warned you that you’re going to fall over the bannister one of these days? Do you even _listen?_ ” 

“Erm,” he muttered, pinking a bit in the face as classmates swarmed to hear his answer. “Thought it might be fun?” 

His sass was clearly not appreciated, and Hermione’s eyes narrowed as several sixth-years whispered awed things like “He did it on _purpose?_ So daring.” She was still Head Girl, after all. 

“And was it then? _Fun?_ ” 

Her voice was icy, and not even Ron’s “Come on, Hermione” paired with a friendly hand on her shoulder would melt it. 

Realizing his mistake, Harry straightened his spine like he often did in McGonagall’s presence. “Er, no, actually. Not very fun. Wouldn’t recommend.” If he got on her bad side, he could kiss his chances of her editing his Potions essay goodbye. He glanced around the hall, looking for a distraction. “Was it you then? Who cast the _arresto momentum_?” 

He had meant it as a way to showcase his devout appreciation for Hermione saving his life (once again), but, if anything, she became even angrier. “Was it _me? Was it me?_ No, Harry! It’s a protective cushioning charm on the _floor!_ If you’d just read ‘Hogwarts: a History,’ like I’ve told you a _million times_ , then you’d _know_ that!” 

“Oh,” Harry managed. He’d never heard that the floors had been enchanted—in fact, he distinctly remembered upperclassmen telling tales of people falling to their untimely deaths when he was a first-year. (He’d been much more careful _then._ ) It was also a little disappointing that Hermione had known all of this, seen him go over the edge, then left him to whatever century-old charms had been created in Bathilda Bagshot’s time. 

If it was _him_ , he’d at least have been a little concerned about the wear-and-tear on a spell like that. 

But as usual, Hermione was right in the end, and there was nothing for it. He picked up his bag from the floor with a huff and stood just in time to see Malfoy strolling leisurely down the last few steps to the ground. He was scowling, which wasn’t particularly unusual, but this time he also looked fascinated, despite himself, in what had gone down. Which he was hiding poorly behind his casual demeanor. 

“Come to gloat, Malfoy?” he snapped, before the other boy could say anything. Harry still hadn’t paid him back for his unanswered snark the other day. _Today_ though— _today_ he would have the first word. 

Malfoy stopped about five feet away, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side. “Should I? I thought _this_ ,” he gestured carelessly at Harry and the room, “was all ‘on purpose,’ after all?” 

Harry flushed as he realized his error. His voice must’ve carried when he’d said that—not to mention the rumors were already flying through the student body as people scattered and went their separate ways. _Him and his big mouth._

Alright, he’d have to just go with it then. “Yes, well. It was. So there!” 

At the terrible comeback, Malfoy’s lips drew up into a slow smirk.

_Why, oh why did he have to look like that all of a sudden? Like one of those predators that lures you in before devouring you?_

Nuh-uh. He wasn’t doing this today. 

Before he could say something he regretted (or _fall_ again—Merlin forbid!), Harry turned and stalked out of the hall. It was an unusual move for him, for sure, and in the subsequent confusion and scrambling, he heard Ron and Hermione rushing to follow, telling him to “wait” and “where are you going all of a sudden?” 

Unfortunately, it didn’t tune out the sound of Malfoy laughing. 

The third time Harry fell in Malfoy’s presence was a little less dramatic, yet no less embarrassing—and, once again, he found himself wishing for a time-turner (or even something as straightforward as _common sense_ ) that might’ve had the power to save him. He’d been flying with Ron and Ginny in the afternoon, just a little chaser’s game, when Harry had seen Malfoy strolling towards the pitch.

He’d promptly flown into a post. 

As far as Quidditch accidents went, it certainly wasn’t his worst—but the indignity couldn’t be blamed on a cursed bludger this time. Undoubtedly, his friends in the bleachers would ask him what had happened later, and he still wasn’t quite prepared to tell them. 

Anyway, he hit the sand at speed, and, after rolling about twenty feet, came to a petering stop at Malfoy’s feet. It could’ve been brain damage, but he kind of wanted to just give in and lie there, staring up at him and resigning himself to the fact that he now found Malfoy terribly attractive. 

But, alas, with his friends in the stands, as well as a significant number of underclassmen from the team who had come to watch, he knew he couldn’t. Harry could live with his bisexual panic—but only if it remained _secret_. 

He was about to drag himself up into a sitting position when a familiar shoe jabbed into his shoulder once more. “Great form, Potter. Next time, you might just catch the ground!” 

Harry chanced a glance up at Malfoy to see the boy was smirking in that way that used to drive him crazy in anger (but now drove him crazy in a different way altogether). 

He must’ve mumbled something like “oh fuck”—which he really hadn’t meant to say aloud—because the smirk grew ever wider. 

Malfoy toed him again, a bit more sharply this time. 

“But I must know,” he continued, sounding delightfully vindictive. “What were you aiming for: the garish Gryffindor colors? Or just the nearest pole to be nailed by?” 

Harry’s eyes grew wide, but he was saved from answering by Ron and Ginny swooping down to help him up, very nearly hexing Malfoy in the process. With an arm around Ron’s shoulder, Harry cast one last glance behind him, only to see the blonde dropping him a wink before sauntering away. 

He was so flustered by it—because _really?_ Had _Malfoy_ just _winked_ at him?—that he tripped right back flat onto the pitch, and the ringing laughter behind him did nothing to soothe his frenzied heart. 

Now that Malfoy seemed to have discovered his weakness, Harry wasn’t only _falling_ in front of him anymore. No—now that Malfoy was making _suggestive comments_ or (his personal favorite) _winking_ at him whenever he thought he could get away with it, Harry was doing other dumb shit too, like spilling his inkwell across his essays and missing his mouth while he was eating and (the absolute worst) mistaking mandrake root for bicorn horn and causing a small explosion during Potions class that Slughorn _still_ hadn’t forgiven him for. 

He’d lost his “star student” title for that one, too. 

No, now that Malfoy had realized his power over him, he was flagrantly _abusing_ it. Anytime Harry so much as _glanced_ in his direction—which, he found, he did far more often than he’d previously thought—Malfoy would get this pleased little look on his face like they were in the midst of a game, and he was _winning_. 

It made Harry angry enough to wank at least four times a day. 

Which, he rationalized, was _fine_ , because it’s not like he was wanking _to_ Malfoy—just _because of_ him. It was perfectly healthy. And if his thoughts sometimes drifted from vague fantasies of pleasure to sharp grey eyes and blonde hair that _gleamed in the sunlight_ —well, that was his own business. 

It unfortunately became his whole _dorm’s_ business, however, the night Ron had accidentally overheard him moaning “Draco” in the shower and confronted him in front of their other roommates. “What the fuck, mate?” he was saying. “Malfoy? _Really?_ ” 

Harry wasn’t sure whether he was more ashamed of his wank material or simply the fact that he’d been caught. Lost in defensiveness as he was, he decided not to dwell on it. “I _told_ you, you misunderstood! I was practicing a…a _speech_ I was gonna give him next time I beat him at Quidditch!” 

“Oh yeah? And that speech just happened to include directives like ‘harder’ and ‘fuck _me_ ’?” 

Dean and Seamus’ heads were snapping between them like Muggles watching a tennis match. Neville, for his part, looked the least surprised out of all of them. 

Harry practically growled in frustration. “No! I mean, _yes_ , technically I _did_ say those things, but they were an aside! I wasn’t actually going to _say_ that part!” 

Ron glowered at him from the far side of the room. “Mate, why don’t you just admit it? It’s bloody obvious that you want to fuck him.” His face took on a greenish tint. “Or, in this case, get fucked _by_ him—which was really more than I needed to know, by the way! Regardless, you’ve been staring at him nonstop all year!” 

“We’ve only been back two months!” Harry protested. 

“Well, then you’ve been staring at him for _two months!_ Happy?” 

Harry scowled. He continued to glare at Ron until a softer, calmer voice broke the silence. 

“Harry, you know it’s true.” 

He whipped around to glare at his latest betrayer, Neville. “No, it’s not! He’s just… just very _noticeable_. In general. Not to me specifically.” 

“Mate, I’m going to have to agree with Neville and Ron on this one,” Seamus cut in. “You’ve got more sexual tension between you and Malfoy than Filch and his bloody cat. And you’ve seen the way he coos at her.” 

“Hear, hear,” Dean agreed, to Harry’s utter dismay. 

His whole dorm was against him. 

“There’s no _sexual tension_ —” he cut off, choking on his own mortification, “between me and _Malfoy_.” He swallowed, thinking fast. “And if there was any _tension…_ it’d just be between me and myself, really,” he added, not intending to sound as much like the sad sod he was.

“Oi, mate,” Seamus said, mellowing immediately, “there’s plenty of tension on his side as well. You know that, right?” He glanced next to him at Dean, who seemed to share in some secret gay conversation with him through his eyes. 

Harry wished _he_ had that superpower. 

He turned, scratching at the back of his neck, suddenly anxious. “There’s not. Trust me.” 

Seamus squawked, and Dean talked over his boyfriend in a surprisingly serious tone. “What makes you think that? He’s constantly flirting with you.” 

Harry’s stomach twisted. “That’s…that’s not _flirting_ ,” he muttered at last. “He’s _baiting_ me so I’ll look stupid if I react to it. And he’s never said anything about being gay…”

“ _You’ve_ never said anything about being gay!” Ron erupted. “That doesn’t mean anything—unless it’s suddenly considered very ‘straight’ to talk about wanting to fuck blokes?” 

“Besides,” Seamus cut in, “he _is so_ flirting with you! I saw him wink at you in Potions without even saying anything mean after!” 

“I saw him push Parkinson out of the way to get a better view of you falling off the stairs,” Neville remarked. 

“I saw him send you a love letter in the middle of the Great Hall,” Ron added, looking smug. 

“That wasn’t a _love letter_ ,” Harry shrieked, “it was a picture of me getting walloped by the Whomping Willow! And then struck by lightning!” 

Ron scoffed. “A _hand-drawn_ picture. Folded lovingly into the shape of a crane that flapped five circles around you before landing.” 

Harry blushed spectacularly. “He was trying to get to me!” 

“Oh, I think he _got to you_ , alright.” 

“Ron. Harry.” Dean’s voice cut through their argument. He rubbed his forehead, then took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Alright. Okay, Harry—what do you want to do about this?” He looked him in the eye. 

Harry was silent a long moment, hating the way everyone was looking at him again. “Uhh, nothing?” he asked hopefully. 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His eyes grew serious though, if not a little sympathetic. “But you should consider it, really. I think he’d give it a go if you asked him.” 

“Right,” Harry said. Then quickly amended: “I mean, I’ll _think_ about it. He definitely _wouldn’t_ though.”

“I dunno, mate,” Ron sighed. “He watches you nearly as much as you watch him.” 

The next morning, Harry spotted Hermione in her usual place in the common room and was planning to say hi when Ron called out, “Hermione! You gotta hear this! Harry finally came out last night!” 

Harry spluttered and elbowed him aggressively in the ribs. “What? No, I _didn’t_.” 

“Oh, so you admitted you’re in love with Malfoy then?” His head snapped up to find Hermione smiling at him with amusement. 

“ _No._ That’s _not_ what I came out about. And I’d appreciate it if you let _me_ do the confessing, thank you very much.” He glared at Ron one more time before taking Hermione’s hand and clearing his throat with some fanfare before formally declaring, “Hermione. I’m bisexual.” 

Her brow furrowed a bit, but she was still smiling when she said, “Yes. I mean, I knew that already. But it’s nice of you to say so.” 

“Oh,” Harry replied, slightly crestfallen. “Oh, okay.” And then, because he just really craved that reaction of surprise, he added, “And I _might_ have a crush on Malfoy.” 

Hermione _did_ look surprised—but he got the feeling that it was more from the fact that he was admitting it than the content itself. 

“You _definitely_ have a crush on Malfoy,” she amended. “Merlin, it only took you stepping off a moving stairway to finally notice it!” 

He rolled his eyes, hard, and they both teased him on their way down to breakfast. It was pleasant though; he couldn’t deny he’d been worried about how everyone would react. When they arrived in the Great Hall, though, Hermione filled a plate with pastries and got right down to business. “Okay, so what’s the plan?” 

“Plan?” he asked, already suspicious of where this was going. 

“Yes, plan. For, you know…” she gestured vaguely to Harry and then swished her fingers like she didn’t know how to elaborate the rest. She leaned in a bit. “Your _Malfoy fixation_.” 

He took a large bite of toast that (thankfully) made it _into_ his mouth this time. “There’s no _plan_. Why does everyone keep thinking there’s a plan?” 

“Because that’s what you do when you have a crush?” she offered. 

He laughed. “No—that’s what _you_ do. Most people just let things play out.” 

Seamus and Dean fell into the seats next to him. “That’s not true, mate,” Seamus said, stealing a croissant from Harry’s plate. “Everyone makes up little plans, even if they don’t tell anyone.” 

“I… _really?_ ” He’d never made a plan beyond deciding he wanted to ask Cho Chang to the Yule Ball fourth year. And Ginny, even less so—if that was possible. 

Hermione gave him an exasperated look. “Yes, _really_. Now what’s the plan? Do you want to ask him to Hogsmeade maybe?” 

“No! Absolutely not,” he said quickly, throwing up his hands. “That’s way too fast. He’s probably not even gay.” 

Hermione tilted her head in confusion. “Is _that_ really something you’re concerned about?” At Harry’s embarrassed silence, she pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, hissing sigh. “Harry, look. If you’re concerned about _Draco Malfoy_ being ‘too straight’ to date you, then I—I mean, I hate to be stereotypical; you know I don’t judge people like that, but… I mean, logistically speaking, it’s more than likely that he—I mean, based on what I’ve seen—is at least a little bit…”

“Get on with it,” Ron groaned, though somewhat fondly nonetheless. 

Hermione pursed her lips. “Right. Well—all I’m trying to say is that he’s very _theatrical_ and also _well-groomed_ , and that more than likely indicates that he’s at least a _little_ gay. If we’re going by statistical averages, of course.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Harry exclaimed. “I’m neither of those things, and yet I still find myself wanting to fuck men!” He slouched back down in his seat when he noticed several Hufflepuffs turning to glance at him curiously. 

“Well-groomed, no. However…” Hermione leveled him with a Look, “theatrical, you can’t deny.” 

“I’m not _theatrical_ ,” Harry declared, with his hand pressed to his chest in a flourish even Snape would be proud of. He frowned. Okay, so he saw the hypocrisy. 

“Whatever,” she said, “that’s not the point. The point is you need to make a _plan_. Because I’m not going to sit here all year watching you pine after him without ever saying anything.” 

“Oh, so like the past three years?” Ron asked. To Harry’s dismay, Hermione’s lip quirked up at the corner. Another traitor.

“Yes. So let’s think… maybe you could flirt back and see how he reacts?” 

“Ooh, that’s good,” commented Seamus, who’d been listening raptly while decimating a danish. “Put the pressure back on him! Here, let’s practice.” 

He screwed up his face in some vague imitation of Malfoy’s distinctive smirk and gave Harry a shove. “Hey _Pottah_ , get out of my face!” 

Harry alternated between frowning and blushing at the current predicament he found himself in. His eyes darted to the real Malfoy without him really meaning them to. 

“That’s not what he sounds like,” he said, because it _wasn’t_. Seamus was far too Irish to capture that pretentious, posh (sexy) drawl that fueled his fantasies now. And he wasn’t nearly as pretty as Malfoy. 

“Just do it!” Ron and Hermione snapped at the same time, and he jerked back to face Seamus in resignation. 

“ _Fine_. Err…”

“You just going to keep staring at me, _Pottah?_ My _fath-ah_ will hear of this!” 

_He really doesn’t talk like that anymore_ , Harry wanted to say. But he figured his friends would keep harassing him until he played along, so he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he floundered for some remark that could turn _that_ around. Merlin.

“Err… _yeah_ , I’m staring at you. What’re you gonna do about it?” It fell flat, even to his ears, and his face heated up to a thousand degrees in penance as his friends stared at him, unimpressed. 

“We need a new strategy,” Hermione said at last. 

“Clearly,” Dean replied. “One that’s more suited to our hero in need.” He looked Harry over appraisingly, and eventually continued, “What about playing helpless?”

“ _What?_ ” Harry yelled, at the same time Hermione cried, “That’s _perfect!_ ” 

He swiveled to glare at her. “Ex _cuse_ me?” 

She had the grace to look a little bit sorry, but not sorry enough to keep from launching into a full-blown character analysis of him that determined that any vulnerability he showed through acting helpless would “contrast his brave, heroic persona” and therefore “be more alluring to someone like Malfoy who had always wanted to defeat him.” 

“If you show him that side of you willingly,” she concluded, “he’ll see past all the games you two have been playing and notice you for who you are.” 

Harry’s head hurt, and he wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to Hermione’s long-winded explanation of his own personality or the terrible introduction of “flirting practice” in the Great Hall. “I’m not acting helpless,” he argued. “How would I even go about doing that? Throwing myself at his feet and asking for a hand-up?” 

He’d meant it as a joke, but he regretted it the second Hermione’s eyes lit up. “ _Actually_ , that’s not a half-bad idea. You’re always falling in front of him these days—just use that as a natural opportunity to ask for help.” 

“I-…”

“Swear it,” she demanded. 

Harry looked around the circle of his friends and sighed. He knew when he’d been outmaneuvered. “Fine. I’ll try it.” 

The next time Harry fell in front of Malfoy was later that afternoon, so he really hadn’t had enough time to get used to the idea before he was already enacting The Plan™. On his way to Charms, he’d seen Malfoy coming from the other direction, and before his brain could warn his feet about the incoming danger, they were already tangling together like floppy pieces of seaweed and sending him sprawling across the hard, stone floor. No steps this time—just consistent slapstick timing. 

Malfoy laughed at him, which was always his first reaction these days. He waved Zabini and Parkinson on ahead into the classroom, while he himself walked over and came to a stop by Harry’s head. 

“Miss a step, Potter?” His voice was like sex, and that—more than anything—urged Harry to keep his mind on The Plan™ versus (his _actual_ favorite reaction) Retreat. If it went well, after all, he might someday be privy to more than just that voice. “Oh wait—I forgot. This time, we’re on level ground.” 

Harry glared up at him, wondering what the boy’s reaction would be. _Was he really going to do this?_

He answered his own question by sticking a hand in the air, meeting Malfoy’s eyes defiantly. “Shut up and help me up, Malfoy.” 

It was a little… _gruff_ , but the best he could do. 

To his utter surprise though, it seemed to be enough. Malfoy’s smirk slipped, and his cheeks pinkened exponentially as the silence wore on—he wore a look of earnest shock that wavered into first suspicion, then indignation, then something fiery and dark before settling once again on shock. 

“W-what?” he stuttered at last. 

Harry found himself grinning. In a way, it had ended up as a perfect blend of the two tactics: “turn things around on him” _and_ “act helpless.” 

“Your _hand_ , Malfoy; give me your _hand_.” 

Malfoy swiveled forward and wordlessly complied, adam’s apple bobbing in a swallow as he did. Harry gripped his hand tightly, pulling himself up to his feet—just as surprised as Malfoy seemed that he was acting as a proper counterweight instead of dropping him. 

Then, he was standing. 

Suddenly, things were terribly awkward. They were still far too close, and Harry didn’t know where to look, and he was holding Malfoy’s hand—which was promptly snatched away as soon as he realized it. 

Godric—why hadn’t he planned further ahead? He had no idea what to _do_. 

He wracked his brain for any other ideas his friends had given him, and when the only remaining one came to mind, Harry blurted, “You want to go to Hogsmeade with me?” 

Malfoy’s eyes went comically wide. “ _What?_ ” 

Harry cleared his throat, trying to stop fiddling—but he didn’t know what to do with his hands now that they weren’t holding Malfoy’s. _How had he known what to do with them before?_

“I…er, was wondering. If you wanted to go to Hogsmeade. With me.” 

“Do you ask everyone you fall down for?” Malfoy asked, sounding more astonished than sarcastic for once. 

Harry laughed once before clamping down on it. Then, he realized it was _okay_ to laugh at Malfoy’s jokes if he was literally _asking him on a date_ —to which, he opened his mouth and laughed once again. 

Malfoy was looking at him like he was some kind of alien creature now. 

“No,” he hurried to answer before the boy gave up on trying to understand him. “I actually don’t fall much, er, in front of other people. I’m quite sure-footed normally.” 

Malfoy snorted at that, and a ghost of his familiar smirk curled the corners of his lips. “Sure-footed. Right.” 

“So is that a yes?” Harry asked, praying to every god he could think of that he wouldn’t be rejected in front of the Charms classroom on a nondescript Tuesday. Really, he’d gone through too much in his life to end up going through _that_ too. 

Malfoy eyed him suspiciously. “Is this one of your games, Potter? Because if it is, I’ll hex you into next week. What do you even _like_ about me?” 

Harry weighed his next words carefully. So far, it wasn’t a _no_ , but it was definitely more of a “convince me” than a _yes._ And he planned to do just that. 

“Not a game,” he assured. “And I, er…” He took that moment to notice that several of his friends had arrived to class and were standing there watching them. Even Zabini and Parkinson had peeked back out of the classroom to see what was going on. _Bollocks_. 

He refocused on Malfoy, trying to tune out Hermione’s emphatic hand gestures in the background. “You’re very good at drawing,” he said, not quite sure where it was coming from. 

Malfoy’s eyebrows flew up his forehead. But he still wasn’t saying “no,” so Harry continued. 

“And charms too, for that matter. And Potions, actually—”

“I _know_ my academic record, Potter,” Malfoy cut in with exasperation, “so if that’s really all—”

“It’s not!” he all but yelled. Swallowed. Started again. “I mean, that’s not all of it. I…I like playing Quidditch with you. And dueling you has always been too exciting to resist…”

“That’s just fighting, Potter. You like _fighting_ me.”

“Yes, but I want to _fight_ you with my _tongue!_ ” Harry shouted, then immediately blazed scarlet a beat later. 

He couldn’t decide if his most embarrassing moment was saying that line aloud or the fact that Flitwick stepped out of the classroom in the next moment, with perplexity written across his face. 

“Come into the classroom, everyone. Why are you all out here—”

“I like that you’re annoying and sarcastic,” Harry continued, eyes trained on Malfoy,—ignoring the aggravated huff of his professor behind him. “I like that you tease and challenge me in a way that no one else will.” 

“Potter, what are you—”

“I like the way you look in Quidditch leathers.” He heard a few gasps from the group at that one, including another attempt to reassert order by Flitwick. Malfoy himself looked stunned into silence. 

“I like how you’re _gorgeous_ and your hair _actually gleams in the sunlight_ , and I love that you _know_ you’re beautiful and don’t give a shit.” 

Malfoy sucked in a breath. “Like? Or love?” he asked shakily, picking up on the change. 

Harry smirked then, because he realized he’d done it—he’d gotten Malfoy exactly where he wanted him. The Slytherin in him writhed in celebration. 

“Come to Hogsmeade with me, and maybe you’ll find out.” 

“I…I—” Malfoy seemed to give up on words and look away, biting his lip. After a long moment, he gave a jerky nod. “Fine. You win. But you’d better make it worth my while.” 

Harry deflated with relief. “Fuck yes,” he hissed with a fist pump as he let Flitwick corral him into the room. His eyes were still on Malfoy. He suspected it would be a long time before he regained the ability to look away. 

Harry still fell in front of Draco on occasion. It’d been several months since they’d started dating, but there was just something about the boy that never failed to cross his wires. Maybe it was the way his hair was blinding from a distance, or the bewitching glide of those long legs, or the devious glint to his eyes when he was plotting something—whatever it was, Harry had gotten used to his own reactions by now. In fact, he’d even come to love them a bit. 

On this particular day, Harry was running down the steps to the dungeon when he glanced up to see Draco in a chair, then promptly tripped and tumbled into his lap. The blonde’s head snapped up in mock frustration. 

“Harry! How many times do I have to tell you! You don’t need to _fall_ on me to get my attention.” 

Harry laughed, unseating a textbook from Draco’s grip before nuzzling further into his chest. “Well, I would hope not,” he said, with a little bit of cheek. “Otherwise I can’t imagine what you would accuse me of for tumbling into your _father_ on Christmas.” 

Draco rolled his eyes skyward and tried to maintain his put-upon expression. “Yes, well, that was already a terrible enough situation without adding any accusations.” He shivered, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was in earnest or mere dramatics. 

His boyfriend was really very _theatrical_ , after all. 

“Besides,” Harry continued, “I was looking at _you_ when I fell. It’s not _my_ fault you wore that cute little witch hat with stars on it.” 

Draco’s façade of control broke, and a devastating pink washed over his cheeks. “It’s _traditional_ ,” he hissed, not even bothering to feign civility anymore. 

The few underclassmen that were still in the Slytherin common room with them hurried off. By this point, everyone knew which sort of arguments led to snogging, and once the novelty of it had worn off, most were only too quick to scatter when they saw the warning signs. 

“It’s traditionally _adorable_ ,” Harry murmured, pulling himself up to straddle his waist. “Makes you look like a snow fairy.” 

Draco growled, catching him by the wrists as he replied, “They’re called _Winter Fey_ and—”

“Yes, yes. You’re _so_ smart.” Harry leaned the rest of the way in and kissed him. 

Their lips brushed together softly, then hungrily—and Harry decided arguing with Draco was nearly as good as acting helpless in front of him. Both were games that they played. 

“You’re a prat,” Draco said as soon as he pulled back, and Harry grinned. 

“I know.” 

Draco quirked a brow. “Oh, _do_ you now? Then you know what’s coming next.” He smirked back, and Harry tried to quell his heart’s stammering at what he _suspected_ might come next. He really liked that smirk a lot. 

“Yeah,” he said, pulling Draco to his feet and tugging him in the direction of his room. He was happy like this finally—here, in this messy relationship with Draco; here, under the green porthole glow. And if he tripped a few times on the way, then that was his own business. 

These days, Draco caught him every time. 

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHH I'm so excited to share my piece for Strugglefest! This fest honestly sprang from me and some online friends making bad jokes about Drarry scenarios, which (paired with general enthusiasm and my Ravenclaw work aesthetic) ended up becoming a fest. 
> 
> Which YOU should join as well! Check out the [rules](https://drarrystrugglefest.tumblr.com/); it's open until the end of July! 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoying my version of Harry failing spectacularly at flirting and still snatching up his man in the end! :)


End file.
